


just one problem

by spiritscript



Series: balancing acts [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Getting Together, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Content, Underage Drinking, not quite friends to something a little more complicated, osamu worst brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:01:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27884188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiritscript/pseuds/spiritscript
Summary: Miya Atsumu has a problem. If you ask his brother Osamu, Osamu would say Atsumu has a lot of problems. Atsumu disagrees. Atsumu is fully entrenched in the belief that he has one problem and one problem only, and that one problem is his brother Osamu. He knows Osamu is his one and only problem because he is the reason that Atsumu has to look for a job.Atsumu needs a job, Sakusa terrifies him but he refuses to let him know this, Osamu is The Worst Brother Ever.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: balancing acts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2041702
Comments: 21
Kudos: 146





	just one problem

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes, you're in your 20s and you remember a story of your friend in uni and you need the escapism of a uni au series.
> 
>  **Side Ship(s)**  
>  SunaOsa

Miya Atsumu has a problem. If you ask his brother Osamu, Osamu would say Atsumu has a lot of problems. Atsumu disagrees. Atsumu is fully entrenched in the belief that he has one problem and one problem only, and that one problem is his brother Osamu. He knows Osamu is his one and only problem because he is the reason that Atsumu has to look for a job.

And there’s something very degrading about looking for a job. Having a job is powerful, looking for one is degrading. You create this little document with all of your self perceived best attributes, subtract all the externally perceived follies, and present them on a sheet of clean white paper that’s supposed to be a metaphor for the truth printed on it—but serves more as a background for the little white lies staining it to blend into—and hand it over to large soulless corporations to look at and laugh at and decide whether they want you to just be another number in the machine of capitalism because you are, as eloquently as possible, actually shuffling to them on dirty knees saying, _I have no money, please exploit me so I can afford to live._

Atsumu stops. He thinks. He comes to the conclusion that he's spending too much time with Rintarou.

Still, it is degrading, that much he knows. But at least this isn’t a large corporation, he thinks and looks at the cafe where his next interview is, just a small local chain. Not a big deal.

He’s early because he put down ‘punctual’ and ‘good time management’ skills in the CV he sent them two weeks ago on a whim, kinda hoping he wouldn’t even get an interview because he can’t guarantee he won't spill coffee on a lot of people and because of Sakusa Kiyoomi. 

_The_ Sakusa Kiyoomi that Atsumu has known for roughly three years now, ever since that fateful encounter in first year when he crashed into him outside of the medical building on the third day of uni. Full-forced crashed into him because Rintarou’s class wasn’t far from Atsumu’s, and so they decided it’d be nice to walk together, but Atsumu said something about his ugly fucking hair and Rintarou is strong—stronger than he looks—and shoved, using all the power in that tiny frame of his, shoved Atsumu, causing him to stumble and fall, full-force, into Sakusa Kiyoomi. Sakusa Kiyoomi who was not paying attention and was crashed into—full-force—by a six foot one, young man named Miya Atsumu weighing a little over eighty five kg and who never, _never_ , skips leg day and had just been shoved, hard, by his brother’s good for nothing boyfriend into a slightly taller, less built, young man, who had a smoothie in his hand because _health_ and both of them ended up on the ground. The smoothie ended up all over them. They ended up in the same anatomy class. 

Never had or has Atsumu felt so akin to dogshit in his life because that is the horrifying power of Sakusa Kiyoomi. 

Sakusa Kiyoomi is terrifying. 

In fact, Sakusa Kiyoomi has a bit of a reputation which includes making a sixty five year old philosophy lecturer cry with three words. Atsumu doesn't know what these three words are. He's heard a lot of rumours and theories but doesn't know the unbridled truth and he doesn't really want to ask because if he made a sixty five year old philosophy lecturer cry with them, he just doesn’t think he needs to know them.

This is a spectacular feat in and of itself, but even more so when you deconstruct and analyse all of its component pieces. First of all, it was a philosophy lecturer, someone who’s dedicated their entire life to pondering such life altering questions as whether they ‘should be or not’ and declaring boldly that ‘god is dead.’ Then the fact that the man was sixty five also has to be considered: someone who has spent more time studying his own mortality and the shittiness of humans than he has not, but was surely at that point in his life where where he was knowledgeable and somewhat resigned to his mortality and the shittiness of people through life experience, and at least somewhat comfortable in both of these truths by that point. The last little detail is that it was in the first week in his first year of his first semester and so was only just turned eighteen. He defeated what should have been a final boss in the battle of life with three words at the age of eighteen. Atsumu wonders if it was the same day as the smoothie incident and just how lightly he had gotten off with a Mjölnir-like glare. 

Sakusa Kiyoomi is the human embodiment of a lightning strike landing mere centimeters from your toes and brushing against your nose.

Utterly terrifying. 

And he can see his signature little quiff hovering behind the till. Deep breaths. He can do this.

The door opens with a chime and Skausa looks up at him, a yellow highlighter poised in his hand over what Atsumu assumes is a textbook, a greeting half way out of his mouth before it shrivels in the air and promptly returns back to him. 

“What are you doing here?” He asks and caps the highlighter, closing the book over it and tucking everything beneath the counter.

“Omi-kun!” Atsumu squeals and skips over, letting his elbows plop onto the counter where the book had been moments ago, and setting his head in his hands. He blinks up as Sakusa baulks and steps back.

Sakusa is utterly terrifying but Atsumu has always been utterly staunch in his refusal to be intimidated—that or he just has a ‘death by attractive men that are the human embodiment of a lightning strike landing mere centimeters from your toes and brushing against your nose’ wish. Or is just too stupid to know otherwise. Jury’s still out on that one.

“I told you not to call me that,” one of his eyebrows twitches, his eyebrows always seem to be twitching, or maybe they only twitch like that whenever Atsumu is around.

“And I told you that’s not happening.” Atsumu replies and goes to pick a pen off the counter, Sakusa swats him away. He reaches for one of the little stampers for the loyalty cards, is swatted away again. When he finally goes to flick Sakusa’s nose, his hand is caught and his tirade is stopped. 

“Why,” Sakusa repeats slowly, but his voice doesn't hold any of the malice—Atsumu is sure he wishes it did—only pure exasperation because Sakusa gives in easily, “are you here?”

Atsumu pulls his hand from his grip and holds onto the edge of the countertop, leans back precariously on his heels, and Sakusa swats at his fingertips to see if he’ll let go and lose balance, it doesn’t work.

“I actually have an interview here.”

Sakusa looks at him with a face so full of disgust that it’s actually somewhat nostalgic to Atsumu, reminding him of the first day they met.

“What on earth makes you think you’ll get a job here, you don’t even come here for coffee or pastries or to loiter.” He finally squeezes out.

“There is a reason for that,” Atsumu begins in his defense, appalled that Sakusa doesn’t think he has all the skills on his little document that definitely make him sound employable, “and it’s ‘cause my brother is a culinary student whose love language is food and I am the obligatory third wheel in his relationship that mooches said food. And I don’t have to buy coffee usually because we have a fancy coffee machine because his boyfriend—the illegal third tenant of our apartment so the bills are payable—drinks so much coffee and diet coke he is seventy percent caffeine. Cut him open and he would ooze brown gunk. So I never _have_ to come here. And it’s not exactly like there’s sparkling customer service to entice me or anything.”

“I can be sparkling.”

Atsumu doesn’t laugh. He would laugh. He wants to laugh. But there was something so pathetically earnest and a little desperate in the way Sakusa had said that, that he actually just wants to wrap his arms around him, pull his head into his bosom and murmur soft, _of course you can sweetie, don’t let them bad people tell you otherwise_ ’s into his ear. 

Instead, because maybe Atsumu does have a death wish after all, answers slowly, voice dripping thick, like zero sugar vanilla syrup off a spoon, with sarcasm, “Uh huh, sure you can.”

“I will rob you of your liver one of these days, Miya.”

Atsumu dramatically sucks in a breath through his teeth and winces, “liver may not be a good choice Omi-kun, I can’t guarantee you’ll get a good price for it, even on the black market. My heart on the other hand,” he says and drapes himself over the till, leering as ridiculously as he possibly can, “ I'll give you that for free if you just ask nice enough.” 

From beneath the counter, Sakusa produces a spray bottle and begins to squirt it at Atsumu, who begins waving his hands and spluttering.

“Omi-kun!” he whines petulantly, “do you have to be so mean all the time?”

“Yeah,” a voice says from behind Sakusa, followed by a boy with stumpy eyebrows, a mop of hair and a too big grin, “he does.”

Sakusa’s face sours considerably, a feat Atsumu did not consider possible considering just how akin it had already been to a child tasting a lemon for the first time. Atsumu likes this guy.

“Motoya—” Sakusa starts but is cut off.

“Yup, that’s my name, don’t wear it out,” then he smacks Sakusa on the back, causing him to stiffen, and grins at Atsumu, “you here for the interview?”

Atsumu was not aware of how much he himself was grinning at the entire situation until he notices how sore his cheeks are and he nods enthusiastically at the boy named Motoya.

“Sweet, Kurosu saw you on the cameras and guessed so. And then sent me down to save you from...” he points blatantly at Sakusa who rolls his eyes and frowns, “this way.” He says and skips, skips, away.

Ataumu watches for a moment and looks at Sakusa who rolls his eyes and mutters a small, “he’s my cousin,” almost mournfully.

Atsumu laughs and begins to hum as he follows the skippy, happy, much nicer boy, then calls back, “wish me luck Omi-kun!”

x

Atsumu slumps into the apartment and makes a beeline for their small living room where he can hear the TV, knowing that Osamu and Rintarou would be there because of said noise and because he heard them stumbling home at five this morning, very loudly. 

So he truges in dramatically and face plants onto the couch with a groan and a, “Omi-kun hates me.”

He’s met with only the sound of the TV.

“Sumu,” Osamu says slowly and Atsumu lifts his head slowly, hopefully, gladly, awaiting the consolation he so readily deserves because Omi-kun hates him and interviews suck and he’s just very sad and tired. “You didn’t close the fucking door.”

His head finds the couch pillow again and he groans loudly before turning slowly onto his back, and then a little more until he’s sliding off the couch.

“Inumaki will get it,” he moans at the ceiling.

“No he won’t Sumu, he’s a ghost not a servant now shut up you’re hurting my head.”

“And mine,” Rintarou adds unhelpfully. 

Atsumu groans louder as he pulls himself to his feet, muttering curses to himself. He goes back to the entrance and swings it shut with a slam, just to piss them off a little more.

“I don’t get it,” Atsumu calls from the hall making his way back to the living room, “he’ll throw DVDs at me but apparently won’t shut the door.”

Rintarou looks at him as he enters again with sleepy eyes above large, almost purple eye bags.

“ _Allegedly_ throws DVDs at you.” He replies coolly and pops a sweet into his mouth.

“Not allegedly,” Atsumu protests leaning against the doorframe, “I was there! It flew from that shelf,” he points to the cabinet beside the TV, “and landed somewhere there,” he points to a space just by the foot of the couch. 

He remembers the event vividly. He had just settled in for a quiet night by himself because he is great company Oikawa, _not_ because he is alone and in a dry spell, when it hit 1:33 a.m. Then, just as he dug his hand into his third bag of freshly popped popcorn—that he may have received eye damage from because he had stood rather close to the door and peered in through the glass to watch the bag become bigger with each pop—when it happened. Die Hard 3: _Die Hard with a Vengeance_ , was lifted by an invisible force, floated for a moment that felt like an hour, and flew through the air, landing on the floor by the couch, three feet away from where it began. Atsumu had screamed and lost all of his popcorn in the resulting scramble which ended in him locking himself in the bathroom until he was woken up the next morning, because he’d passed out on the bathroom floor at some point, to Osamu knocking loudly on the door.

“And, pray tell, how many of Kita-san’s special brownies did you have?” Rintarou asks.

Atsumu furrows his brows, bites the inside of his cheek. “A half.” He mutters but both Rintarou and Osamu’s eyes do that look that he has come to call the _really Atsumu?_ look and he adds, “and one full one, and another two halves,” he mutters and hangs his head like a dog that was just scolded.

They both hum in acknowledgement as if any of this confirms anything, because Kita-san’s special brownies don’t make you hallucinate and they both know this, but he’s getting tired of this argument.

“Don’t,” Osamu starts, narrowing his eyes, “try that argument again, we’re just saying you’re an unreliable witness.”

Atsumu doesn't reply.

“Yeah, so stop trying to slander Inumaki, he’s a good boy that just makes creepy noises and knocks on closet doors at 3 a.m.” Rintarou nods to himself and Atsumu gives up and decides to trudge back to the couch and resume his earlier position

“I hate you both,” he murmurs into the cushion, “also I know you purposefully ignored me mentioning Omi-kun.”

They both throw their heads back as soon as the first sound of the pet name is uttered, and let out their own throaty, pained groans and remain laying placid, playing dead, even when Atsumu begins to speak again.

“No, like, he _seriously_ hates me! And it’s not like I care, because I dont, what does it matter to me if he doesn’t. But I’m not a _bad_ guy and he _hates_ me—”

“And hasn’t he since the first ten seconds you knew each other?” Osamu finally says, just to get Atsumu to _stop talking._

“Yeah, but now it’s a real issue because what if he sabotages my chance of getting a job ‘Samu? And it’s your fault I even—”

“I think,” Osamu cuts in dramatically then levels him with a stare and flattens his voice. “You’re just very gay ‘Sumu.” 

It takes Atsumu a moment as he looks at his brother lounging in the armchair they’d bought from some random guy on the internet and had to literally wash in bleach and so looks like a very weirdly tie-dyed ‘statement’ piece, as those bloggers like to call ugly pieces of furniture. He looks at his brother lounging in this chair wrapped in a fuzzy fleece blanket, with messy hair and probably smelling like sweat and stale alcohol. He looks at him lounging like that with his boyfriend of four years sprawled on top of him, head resting in the crook of his neck and his legs hooked over the arm, holding a very large bowl of sweets between them that they definitely had been feeding each other, probably. He looks at all this and blinks.

“‘Samu, so are you.”

“No,” Osamu replies with a roll of his eyes, “I’m not. I’m straight and just dating Rin to piss you off.”

Rintarou hums and pops another sweet into his mouth. “It’s true.”

Atsumu’s done with them. 

“I’m done with you,” he says and begins to leave, “I hate you both.”

A sweet hits him in the back of the head.

“Oh Sumu!” Rintarou calls behind him already breaking into laughter, “I think Inumaki just threw a sweet at you!” Then they both start laughing way too loud for two hungover assholes.

x

House parties are overrated. American movies are so obsessed with the idea of these large but small parties with red plastic cups and keg stands and home made cocktails where everyone makes out and mounts each other, the air filled with lust and must, fuelled by alcohol and reckless teenage abandon or something.

But house parties actually are overrated.

At least in general they are. Everyone brings the limited amount of alcohol they are able to afford or get their hands on, focuses way too much on making it a ‘good’ night, something gets broken, and no one actually wants to dry hump on some old couch the host of the evening probably saved from a landfill because they are bound to know most of the people, or else most of the people know someone who knows someone they know, and do not need to do that in public, nevermind people they actually know.

Sometimes they’re alright, good maybe.

This is not one of them.

Osamu and Rintarou had abandoned him in favour of each other’s company and because Osamu has some paper on ‘Why Food Is Important’ or something stupid, and Rintarou hadn’t read any summaries for the book he was supposed to be doing a presentation on tomorrow, so they had left Atsumu to go alone. Not that he has problems going alone, he’s fun, he’s lively, he's charismatic when he wants to be, and he’s actually in a good mood because of some good news. But he’s just not feeling it tonight, and he would have ditched but he’d said he’d come weeks ago to a friend that’s more of an acquaintance and, well… he has nothing else to do. It’s elected singularity Oikawa, not forced.

Therefore he has two choices:

  1. Get super drunk on the minimal alcohol he has and what he can steal from whoever else is there and find out tomorrow around two o’clock, when he finally gets up to answer the door to the take out man and finally looks at his phone, from a patchwork of pictures and social media posts and texts from friends or  

  2. Not really drink anything and slip out early.



The second is looking the most appealing to him at that moment as some loud, short, white haired boy shouts something at someone Atsumu doesn't know for using his favourite mug instead of the clear plastic cups, that definitely are not good for the environment, that have been provided. Short white haired boy’s friend laughs and puts a hand on his shoulder and smiles pleasingly to try and placate him. It works. Sort of. The boy puts on one hell of a pout and lets himself be dragged away, but only after the offending party's glass was replaced and the mug was also taken away securely.

Atsumu has been here for approximately twenty minutes and social laws dictate he must wait at the very least another twenty, but he just really wants to go now.

Then he sees something. Well, someone. Someone who may just make the twenty more minutes he must wait before he is socially legally allowed to leave, a little more interesting. How he hadn't spotted him before surprises him at first, but upon closer inspection it's not surprising because he is sitting in a corner with the clear goal to not be noticed and Atsumu had been a little preoccupied with watching the scene with the mug unfold. 

But now it is over and Atsumu has nothing left to lose.

So he saunters over and feels his grin widen with each step and impossibly more so when Sakusa sees him and pulls a face, a face that is the height of him as a person, a perfectly Sakusa face that says, _do not come near me I am disgusted by the mere sight of you._

“Where’s your cousin?” Atsumu says as he perches himself against the wall beside Sakusa and takes a slow mouthful of cheap wine, “I think I prefer him.”

“You don’t even know him.”

“I met him for all of ten seconds and I can already tell he’s far nicer than you.”

It’s then that Atsumu hears a sound for one of the first times in the almost three years he and Sakusa have been… acquaintances he supposes the word would be. He hears it for the first and what he assumes to be the very last time. Not that it’s much of a sound, more a huffing of breath, but it’s there. It’s also almost laugh-like, and as the sound, or not sound, escapes his lips, Sakusa turns to look at him with a look that Atsumu translates as meaning _‘yeah, you don’t know him like I do.’_ But then again, Atsumu has failed at learning pretty much every language he has ever tried to learn ever, and it’s a well known fact amongst all Inarizaki High School alumni that his English teacher probably passed him more out of sheer pity than absolutely anything else. So it’s probably a very poor translation.

“He’s hiding somewhere,” Sakusa says and takes a sip of his drink, looking through the meagre crowd.

“Hiding?”

“Hmm.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“He hiding from the drummer of your brother’s boyfriend’s, slash illegal third tenant of your apartment so the bills are payable’s, band.” He rhymes off seamlessly and Atsumu is left a little taken aback by it, and he flounders for just a second on what this might mean because, remember, Atsumu doesn’t do well with translation.

So he does what he does best instead and grins coyly, “you remember what I said word for word?”

“Well yeah,” Sakusa says unbothered by the baiting and shrugs one shoulder, “it was right before you said my customer service is shit.”

“I never said it was shit,” Atsumu corrects gaining him a nasty side eye from Sakusa, “I said it wasn’t sparkling.”

“Same thing.”

“No, it’s not,” Atsumu corrects again, “because shit can be sparkling if you eat enough glitter. And your customer service isn’t even that.”

Sometimes, sometimes all the time, Atsumu takes things a little too far. Or over exaggerates until something is long past its comedical peak. Or is just an asshole really. And right this very millisecond he’s really worried that this is one or all of those times especially when Sakusa shoots him a text book, dictionary defined, look of incredulity. 

That is until Sakusa begins laughing. Laughing. Properly laughing. A second laugh, but not an almost laugh, an actual laugh. His shoulders shake a little and his eyes crinkle and his nose, his fucking nose, scrunches ( _scrunches!_ ) and a small little laugh explodes out of his mouth and to Atsumu, it’s the only sound in the entire room because what the hell is that? What the actual hell is this?

And then he’s laughing too. They’re both laughing beside each other, independent of the rest of the crowd that seems to have gotten bigger, but that doesn’t matter because they are _laughing._ Together. The sounds from both of them are followed by a silence between them that isn’t uncomfortable. It definitely is not uncomfortable. Atsumu doesn’t even have to try to convince himself that it’s not uncomfortable because it isn’t, it’s actually comfortable.

“So,” Atsumu says eventually, “he’s hiding from Yaku-kun?”

Sakusa hums, not taking his eyes off the crowd.

“Why? He didn’t seem like the type to be easily frightened.”

“Oh no,” Sakusa cuts in with another laugh, “he’s not scared, he’s just got a massive crush and refuses to admit it.”

Atsumu clicks his tongue. “Sounds kinda gay.”

“Not as gay as blowing all your money on male strippers,” Sakusa replies with ease and it’s Atsumu’s turn to burst out laughing.

“Did he actually?”

“No,” Sakusa says and turns to him with a dangerous smile and eyes, “I heard that’s why you’re in need of a job.”

Atsumu, if you ask most people, is known for his ability to talk. Or inability to shut up. Even in times when he doesn’t know what to say, he can usually hurl one last-ditch effort in an attempt to save some sense of dignity (which doesn’t usually work; it usually backfires completely and makes him look so much worse, but he tends to ignore that part).

Now though, he’s left a little speechless for longer, much longer, than he’d like

“Motherfu— Goddammit— It was Sunarin, freaking, I am going to _strangle_ him. What else have you heard?”

Sakusa’s grin just widens and sharpens, “wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Yes actually, I would and I think I have a right to know considering it’s about me.”

Sakusa smiles impossibly wider and then sighs, “that’s actually all I’ve heard. Unfortunately.” He adds as if this is in fact the worst news he’s ever heard, but also, Atsumu catches the glint in his eye as he goes to take a sip of his drink, only to be met with nothing. He frowns down at the little plastic cup.

“Want some of mine?” Atsumu asks, holding up the cheap bottle of Pinot Noir he’d had to beg Aran-kun to buy him.

Sakusa winces and turns his nose up at it.

“Hey! I’m trying to be nice here you know.”

“That thought is utterly terrifying.”

“What does that mean? I’m a very nice guy. You know what, why am I defending myself to you of all people? No. Now do you want some or not?”

Sakusa shakes his head with a smile, “are you saying I’m not nice?” he adds on.

“No, your customer service is shit,” Atsumu replies, putting the bottle down on the ground again without topping himself up.

“No, it’s just not sparkling.” Sakusa corrects.

“Same thing.”

Then they share a look, because that’s apparently something they do now, and start laughing again. And once again the silence that follows is comfortable as they watch the people around them, the crowd thickening with each second that passes and each body that enters the shitty apartment, but none of that matters to them right now.

“You staying much longer?” Sakusa asks and eyes Atsumu’s empty cup that has been that way for a while now.

“Nah, I was kinda just waiting long enough until it was socially legally acceptable to leave.”

Sakusa nods knowingly. “Want to leave then?”

“Hmm?”

“Leave?” Sakusa says nodding towards the door, “you want to leave? Now?”

Atsumu looks down at his watch. Somehow, since entering the party, over an hour has passed. And since it sounded like his only source of entertainment was leaving, he gusses it’s time he does too.

“Sure, Omi-kun. I’ll walk you home.”

x

Somewhere, somehow, at some point or other or at a moment or an instance or a second or an hour that felt a lot shorter than that, from leaving the party to now, something happened. Something. Something. Maybe Sakusa was struck by lightning himself which rewired his entire brain because something, _something_ , is happening.

A finger is hooked in a waistband, a breath of air is huffed between lips, and Atsumu is reeling.

Had he told himself months ago this would happen, he would not believe it. Had he told himself days ago this would happen, he would not believe it. Up until about two seconds ago, the exact moment in which Sakusa hooked a finger into the waistband of his jeans with one of those long, slender fingers of his, if you told him this would happen, he would not believe it. 

Which is why he can only process it in his mind as _Something_ with a capital S, all italics. Actually, _**SOMETHING,**_ in all capital letters, bolded and in italics would be a lot closer. No underline because Atsumu is hot and he reserves some dignity because it was never impossible, he knows he can be hard to resist.

But anyway.

As it is, his (Sakusa’s) long slender finger is in fact hooking into Atsumu’s waistband and he feels something tightening in his body just below said waistband, blood rushing down to focus in one specific place so that all he can do is huff a breathe because how would you possibly articulate the feelings he’s having?

This is so extraordinarily unbelievable, not because he doesn’t get laid, but because there’s a possibility that he’s going to get laid by, or lay, Sakusa Kiyoomi. Sakusa Kiyoomi who is just a little bit absolutely terrifying and has a bit of a reputation which includes making a sixty five year old philosophy lecturer cry with three words.

How does he know that he’s possibly going to get laid, or lay, Sakusa Kiyoomi? Well because Sakusa asked Atsumu at the door of his apartment if he wanted to come up for a cup of coffee to sober up from the drunkenness he was not feeling because he’d barely opened that bottle of shitty Pinot Noir he’d had to beg Aran-kun to get, but he was also not going to say no. Obviously he was not going to say no.

It was around then that the tightening in his stomach began. And then there was a tightening under his waistband when Sakusa asked him as the door closed,

“Do you have a condom?"

He laughed at this, loud and obnoxious, maybe a little louder than he’d intended to, “of course I do,” he replied.

“You sure? Because I don’t.”

“Yes Omi,” he said slyly and a little smugly, “I have a condom. Trust me.”

Atsumu knew he had not one, but three condoms and he always has a condom because he is a responsible adult, not because they’re never used because he’s going through a dry spell, Oikawa, but because he’s responsible.

And now a finger is hooked in a waistband, a breath of air is huffed between lips, and Atsumu is reeling as they stumble into Sakusa’s spotless bedroom and fall onto his perfectly made up bed. Atsumu straddles him as his fingers fumble over the buttons of his shirt and he attempts to keep kissing him messily. 

Fucking buttons.

When the offending piece is finally open and off, Atsumu stops for a moment. Stops working completely for about 0.2 seconds as he stares down at Sakusa.

“Fuck Omi,” he says and smiles, “you’re a lot buffer than you look.”

“Shut up Miya, it’s called taking care of your body,” he retorts but Atsumu can see the flush on his cheeks and the dilated pupils and he is going to stop functioning forever at this rate.

“Uh huh, ‘m not complaining,” he says as he leans down to kiss his chest, trailing up to his neck, then bites his shoulder, shivering at the little noise it evokes from Sakusa’s throat. 

Sakusa’s long fingers are once again on his waist, this time focusing on the front of his jeans, quickly undoing the button and zipper. In a flurry of staggered awkward movements, Atsumu’s own shirt is lost and both pairs of jeans and Atsumu’s underwear are abandoned somewhere on the floor.

“Wait,” Sakusa says and Asumu freezes, “condom.”

Atsumu nods and looks around the room to where he’d dropped his one nice, subtly beaten up, and distressed leather jacket he always wears going out, that always houses three condoms just in case of such an event as this one. 

But of course, Atsumu has one problem. No matter how often his brother may counter and debate this Fact of Life, all of Atsumu’s problems ever can always, without a doubt, be traced back to one source and one source only. Atsumu has one problem and one problem only, and that problem is his brother, Osamu. 

Atsumu knows that he has one problem and one problem only and that that one problem is his brother because Atsumu, he has just now come to realise, does not, in fact, have a condom. Osamu is the root of this problem because there is absolutely no way anyone else has managed to nick all three of the condoms he always has in his one nice, subtly beaten up, and distressed leather jacket he always wears going out, even the ones in the fancy little secret pocket inside of it.

Atsumu does not have a condom. Not one.

What’s worse than being stark fucking naked, bent over said nice, subtly beaten up, and distressed leather jacket he always wears going out, exposing the inner depth of himself to a man that still kind of terrifies him, is that he now has to turn around and rescind the statement he’d spoken so boldly and brashly just minutes before, to the actual personification of a lightening strike.

His knees feel stiff as he straightens up and turns to look at Sakusa sitting on the bed in just his underwear looking as striking as lightning, with his toned body glowing lightly in the dim lights, hair tousled and lips slightly swollen. Fuck.

“Eh, funny story…”

“You don’t have condoms.” Sakusa finishes slowly without batting an eyelash.

“I don’t have condoms,” he can feel the dick that had been very hard and very ready to do all kinds of naughty things moments ago, begin to wilt.

“You said you did.” He arches an eyebrow and every movement is so perfectly fluid and just perfect and Atsumu is standing in his fancy little minimalistic black and chrome bedroom naked as the day he was fucking born just before his horrible fucking brother who was brought into this world after him entirely to cut him down because without him, Atsumu would have no fucking problems and he could easily reach and best god in a game of draughts since it’s chess you play with death, it must be fucking draughts you play against god and god could not deal with his power, with a sad, little (but not physically little) wilting little (but not physically little) boner.

“Well you see I have this problem—”

“You have a lot of problems Miya,” Sakusa cuts in, rising to his feet.

“You’re sounding like my brother—” the laugh he attempts is cut off with one look. But it’s not a mean look, or an angry look, just a look. Maybe a little disappointed, but Atsumu never was good with translation and in the dim room, reading is even harder.

“I think you should,” his eyes flicker to Atsumu’s chest, “go.” 

It takes him a moment.

“Yep okay, yeah. Eh, sorry?” he offers and he lets his hands drop to try and cover his extremely bare intimate area as he shuffles sideways to his own underwear and pulls them on. Sakusa remains quiet as Atsumu pulls on his t-shirt followed by him bouncing around forcing each leg into his too tight jeans that he really shouldn’t have worn for fucks sake. 

Sakusa, at least, has the decency to follow him to the door to see him out.

Atsumu thinks he should say something. This is a weird situation, he should say something—something witty, or smart, or charming, or just enough to break this weird little tension. What does one say to the person they aren’t sure hates them or not and they almost just slept with but didn’t because one did not have the stupid condom one said they had because they always have them, not because, as Oikawa says, one is going through a dry spell but because one is a responsible adult. What does one say in this situation?

So, he attempts to throw one last saving grace, a frayed rope cast into a sea full of sharks, over the threshold.

“Guess I’ll see ya at work Omi-kun.”

The door stops closing and opens again.

“What?”

“Oh,” Atsumu pauses. Oh fuck.

He doesn’t know. Of course he doesn’t know, Atsumu had only found out himself mere hours ago. They’re going to be co-workers after this shit show. Oh god they are going to be co-workers. And whatever the fuck that was had just happened. Oh god no. He tries a sheepish smile.

“Surprise?”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey!! So this series will be multiship and so if you're here just for skts, I have also tagged the series as individual ships so your faves are easier to find!  
> Ships that will be included: SunaOsa, AranKita, YakuKomo, and HiruHoshi
> 
> I hope to update this series every week, so depending on life that's the schedule I'll be keeping! I can also be found on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ohmiyamy/status/1335031796405317632?s=19)
> 
> Major major thank yous to Hannah ([ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunarins/pseuds/lunarins) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/hanoorins)) for massive help being my beta, and helping me title this, and picking a summary, AND creating my twitter graphic like, I owe her so much
> 
> P.S. Inumaki ghost is named after Inumaki in jjk


End file.
